


Not Love

by Cuits



Series: The inherent violence of the silence [1]
Category: Bodyguard (TV)
Genre: F/M, Porn With Plot, kind of kinky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-06 03:14:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15877347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cuits/pseuds/Cuits
Summary: Lack of romantic love doesn't mean lack of feelings.It is not love.But what else could it be.





	Not Love

It is not love.

 

She hasn’t been a teenager for years — ages, and even then she was never too prone to silly fantasies about romance. She is too practical, too focused, too busy for romance, as her failed marriage taught her.

 

She can’t even remember a time when she loved her then husband but it must have existed, otherwise why did she put up with him for so many years? Why let him talk her down, diminish her? Why let him have the power to make her feel less than she is?

 

So she knows that this is not love, but her breath catches in her throat and she sees white as her orgasm starts to hit. Her hand grabs his hair, tousled and wild, as he keeps nibbling, licking, and _Oh God_ , sucking between her legs. The back of her head hits the wall and her thighs tremble against his ears, she wants to trap this feeling inside herself and never let it go.

 

Five seconds pass, then ten, then a whole minute before he stands up to his full height, still between her legs, his perfect, capable hands half supporting her weigh as she lets the dead weight of her body rest gracelessly on top of the desk. He looks at her like a wolf looks at a sheep, like he could consume her whole, make her disappear if he really wanted, but he chooses not to. His breathing is labored when he says “Thank you, ma’am,” with a raspy voice

 

She doesn’t smile. This is not love, this is not cute, this is not romantic, but he makes her feel like a titan, invincible and powerful.

 

She rearranges herself to the edge of the furniture and spreads her legs as far apart as she is able to, rises her chin and waits for him to take up the challenge. He cocks his head slightly and sink his nose in the crook of her neck as he lets go of his pants.

 

Their silences are charged, violent almost but it suits them both. She made peace with the fact that she is a sinner a long time ago, soulless. Her good intentions paved her way to hell and sweetness is not for people like her.

 

He enters her swiftly, one of his hands keeping her hips in place, an by God he breaks her in all the ways she needs to be broken. She craves the filthy desperation of their coupling, the way he seems to be at odds with her, with himself. He will take down anyone who will try to harm her but she moves within her as if he wants to claim her with sex and pain and pleasure and blood.

 

She grabs his hair once again and pulls until his mouth leaves her neck and his eyes are at level with hers. They look at each other as he enters her once, twice, thrice, her hand pulling his hair hard enough to hurt, his fingers sinking in the flesh of her hip, tight enough to leave bruises.

 

“I don’t break easily,” she says, as a warning, as an encouragement.

 

“Yes ma’am.”

 

He pulls out and throws both her legs over his shoulders and then picks her up, lifts her from the desk and lets the whole weight of her body to fall upon him when he enters her again, the angle new, deep and sinful.

 

She never knew she wanted to be touched like this before.

 

\--------------------------------------

 

David is never really off the clock.

 

They taught him how to assess risk, how to prevent and de-escale situations, how to seek enemies where nobody else would see them and how to be always prepared for the worse, and then they sent him to a war zone.

 

Nobody ever told him how to stop and he hasn’t figured out how to do it yet, so he doesn’t.

 

It destroyed his marriage, took it apart bit by bit everytime he looked over his shoulder when they took a stroll around the park with the kids, every time he’d jump out of bed because outside on the street, a car bumped against a trash can, everytime a new postman was assigned to their street and he followed them for a full week before deeming them harmless.

 

And yet he didn’t stop, didn’t seek help when his wife said PTSD one time too many.

 

He left the family house and accepted the separation with the same finality he accepted a new destination — equally unavoidable and something that he would endure for the greater good. Only when he has downed some beers he is able to admit to himself that he is a little glad that his wife left him. The sweet, caring husband that Vicky married is not the person he sees in the mirror when he cares to look, he is a different  person now — a darker one.

 

Montague comes out of her office issuing orders left and right as if she owned the whole world, so he looks around and starts moving, falling into step with her two steps ahead. He stops when she stops to keep arguing with one of her aids and then waits patiently for her to finish her blatant display of power.

 

“Ma’am, we should get moving,” he says after five minutes, the guys downstairs are starting to get nervous and stating it over the comms.

 

“Yes.”

 

She starts to walk again towards the elevator and he drops his voice a quarter of an octave.

 

“Thank you, ma’am.”

 

She doesn’t flinch, her face doesn’t seem to recognize the words or how they are issued but he can see out of the corner of his eyes how she makes a fist of her left hand and refrains from smiling.

 

They step into the elevator, just the two of them facing the metallic doors but David doesn’t let himself get distracted by the way she gets close enough to him for him to smell her perfume.

 

Nothing gets in they way of his work. Nothing, not even his assigned work.

 

They get into the car and he sympathizes with the way she trembles slightly when the car comes to a stop at a red-light, he can bet she still hears the shots impacting against her door. He doesn’t comfort her — it’s not in his job description and it wouldn’t be welcome but when they arrive to her home he stands for a whole minute after finishing doing the reconnaissance of the apartment

 

“Why don’t you take off your tie?” she asks, not playfully. It’s a question that sounds like she is not asking at all.

 

David takes off his jacket and his tie. He hates some parts of her but hates even more the way she can make him feel like he doesn’t need to be who he was before.

 

She walks towards him holding his gaze, without swinging her hips. She doesn’t pretend she’s trying to seduce him with coyness and subterfuge.

 

“You enjoy me telling you what to do.”

 

He does. He craves the way the pain and the pleasure mix when they are together, the way she can make him stop assessing the environment and pay attention to his own skin.

 

He takes her hand and makes her turn with a swift movement, grabbing her from behind. Her breathing becomes erratic when his fingers cover the expanse of her abdomen under her blouse.

 

“And what should I do now?”

 

“Take me to the bedroom.”

 

He does as she says but grinds himself against her ass all the way along the hallway, bites the point where her neck and her shoulder meet, grasps one one of her breasts over her bra and holds her close to him.

 

“Take my clothes off,” she commands, her voice unwavering.

 

He takes care of her blouse and then her pants and then her underwear with quick efficiency, as he would perform any other task that was issued to him, but there’s a slight tremor in his fingers, and he can feel the rush of adrenaline and desire kicking in.

 

His skin itches to touch hers but he will not do it, not now, not immediately. He lifts her and leaves her on her bed carefully because he will not risk her getting hurt unless she asks for it.

 

“Now take off your clothes.”

 

He smiles, only his lips don’t really move. He takes his time to undress properly, to dispose of his vest in the appropriate manner, to leave his shirt over a chair in a way it won’t wrinkle too much.

 

His body is a tale untold, scars, and scrapes and bruises gained in and out of the call of duty. She reads them all, with anxious, pained eyes.

 

“Come here. Touch me,” she says. He is allowed to touch her in the sacred space that they create for their inappropriate relationship. Here. Where he can choose the boundaries he follows.

 

He kneels next to her and her hands go straight for the black and blue bruise that covers his right side. She presses and he hisses, closes his eyes and lets himself feel the pain, the release of his repressed feelings attuning with the rest of himself.

 

It is like he can finally breathe again, like he can only really take air when he is with her like this.

 

“Does it hurt?”

 

He doesn’t open his eyes.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Let me make it up to you.”

 

She pushes him until he is on his back over the mattress and straddles him. She is not gentle — she never is when they have sex — and he is eternally grateful for it. Her hands claim his flesh, her mouth bite and suck until his skin is marked and abused and he feels a little bit like he is not dying inside while he is inside her.

 

She looks him in the eyes and sees how broken he is, but doesn’t run, instead she rises her chin, up for the challenge and rides him in a way that will leave them both unpleasantly sore.

 

It is not love.

 

But what else could it be.


End file.
